Forever Frozen in Time
by whenfireanddarknesscollide
Summary: He has no one left for him anymore. Even with the victory of the Dark Lord, he's lost too much in the war. Written for the QLFC Season 4, Round 11: Holyhead Harpies, Keeper.


Time seems to have stopped completely. It always does in Azkaban. No one can make any sense of time or day once they're confined; it's just coldness, and sorrow, and _despair._

Harry is feeling particularly murderous that night. He glares at the cloaked figure standing motionless before his cell, his back to the cold bars that imprison Harry, shrouded in shadows. He knows the man, it's true, but though they spent their childhood years growing up in the same castle, Harry doesn't know him well at all. He supposes that he never really wanted to get to know the man, and that thought has become even fiercer as recent events have come to pass.

The man in question turns with barely a swish of his long cloak and fixes Harry with that cold, penetrating gaze he's come to know and fear. The look in his eyes is so deeply filled with hatred that Harry can't help but recoil from the bars with a sharp movement. He's long stopped trying to suppress these reflexive flinches.

But deep beneath those hate-filled eyes there lies unquestionable sorrow. Sorrow so profound and crippling that it tears a chasm in the man's heart, Harry can tell. He's become an expert after the devastating events of the war.

And he knows why.

The man addresses him directly. "Potter," he says coldly.

"Zabini," Harry spits, contempt dripping off the single word. "I know what you want, and I've told you: you won't receive it."

Zabini arches a perfect, calculating eyebrow. "Is that so?" he says quietly. He doesn't say any more.

And then the torture begins.

* * *

Blaise emits a quiet sigh as he finally steps away from Potter's lifeless form, now sprawled on the cold stone that makes up the prison floor. He knows he hasn't killed the dark-haired man; he'll just have a vicious headache when he eventually wakes.

He walks down the hallway, passing the cells of Longbottom, multiple Weasleys, McGonagall, and plenty of others who were foolish enough to side with the Light. Most of those Blaise passes hurl insults and crude obscenities at him—someone even spits—but he pays them no mind. He forces himself to stare straight ahead with steely determination. They cannot affect him now.

There is a haunting chill that Blaise is all too happy to escape as he exits the confines of Azkaban. Still trying to drown out the screams of his victim, he Apparates home with a crack, giving one final swish of his cloak as he does so.

* * *

His house is empty, lonely. He has no one left for him anymore. Even with the victory of the Dark Lord, he's lost too much in the war.

The dark-skinned man walks toward the fireplace where he then gently, one-by-one, picks up the framed photographs he's placed there—for what seems like the millionth time. He stares into the smiling faces of his beloved, his family, his best friend, and before he knows what's happening, the first traitorous tear has escaped. It slips down his scarred cheek, coming to pool on the frame he's staring down at.

Her hair wild, like flaming red tendrils, is lifted behind her by the wind, and she smiles at Blaise with teeth so utterly white, so perfectly straight, that she almost seems unreal. She looks at him from astride her broomstick, dressed in robes of red and gold. As she notices the hot tears trailing down Blaise's cheeks, she frowns, her eyes kind and concerned, but she still sits forever frozen on that broomstick. Forever frozen in time.

He replaces the photo and picks up the next. His mother stands tall within a luxurious, gilded frame, and she smiles sweetly at her son. Blaise had never been particularly close to his mother, but he hates himself for not getting to know her better. Now it wasn't possible; he never could again. Forever frozen in time.

The next and final picture depicts a tall and handsome young man with tousled blond hair of a startlingly bright, platinum shade. The man's hard silver eyes soften as he looks at Blaise, but although he can move within the portrait, he cannot jump out of it. Forever frozen in time...

As Blaise collapses into the nearest couch, he just manages to throw a pinch of green powder into the fireplace, and call out a familiar name, before he breaks into silent sobs.

* * *

Hermione steps out of the roaring fireplace, brushing specs of dust and soot from her robes. Her eyes immediately fall on the man slumped on the couch to the right of the fire, hands still clutching at a picture frame.

Walking over without a word, Hermione gently removes the frame from Blaise's grasp and sets it back on top of the fireplace where it belongs. She tries not to look at the person in the picture, because she recognizes the unique silver frame, but once she catches a glimpse of silvery blond, she can't stop herself. Harsh sobs begin to wrack her body as she stares into the familiar face, and as she sits down next to Blaise, her head on his shoulder, she cries herself into unconsciousness.

Hermione dreams about the day he died. She remembers that day perfectly well; every tiny detail is ingrained into her brain.

 _The morning was bright and crisp, which was quite ironic considering the horrific events that had occurred that day. She had just arrived at Hogwarts the previous night, and Harry had been frantically looking for Ravenclaw's diadem the whole day. Everything had been going without a hitch, save for the fact that Harry couldn't, for the life of him, locate the elusive but oh-so-important diadem of course._

 _But then Voldemort had shown up, his voice reverberating loudly through the Great Hall. She'd known he was coming, but the gravity of the situation hadn't hit her until they were all grouped in the Great Hall—as useless as sitting ducks. Hermione had never told anyone, but Draco Malfoy had managed to contact her earlier that day, warning her of Voldemort's impending attack that night. But Hermione had been rightfully wary, unsure whether it was a trap, unsure whether it was even from Draco Malfoy himself._

 _Following the initial warning had been another request—a request (more of a plea) that she not join the fighting and instead flee to somewhere safe. And if Hermione had been wary before, that had certainly raised suspicions. She'd internally refused, arguing that she had to help Harry and the others as best she could—Draco Malfoy certainly wouldn't persuade her otherwise!_

 _But the last part of his unexpected letter had touched her deeply. Draco's final words (and something within Hermione finally convinced her that this really was Draco and that he really was being genuine) declared that his family wasn't on either side anymore; the only thing that was important was the survival and well-being of the Malfoys._

The scene ripples around the edges, then changes…

 _Hermione was duelling a masked Death Eater, and the tall man had just fallen to the floor, unconscious, when she heard a distinctly familiar voice shriek, with great urgency, "Hermione, watch out!"_

 _She barely had time to turn before she saw the flash of green light. Bellatrix Lestrange, wand raised, was cackling with deranged glee, even her eyes flashing with mad contempt._

 _Hermione's body impulsively urged her to move out of the way, but she knew she couldn't possibly move fast enough and—_

 _A nearby flurry of motion dizzied her, but before Hermione could close her eyes, she was forced to watch, in helpless horror, as the agile and unmistakable form of Draco Malfoy hurled himself in front of her just as the Killing Curse collided—_

Hermione jerks awake suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat. She glances over to where she knows Blaise is sitting, and her heart jumps into her throat. Blaise is thrashing, writhing, yet his eyes remain closed.

They'd both been diagnosed with PTSD shortly after the war, and now Blaise shows the devastating effects of the syndrome, trapped in the nightmares that dare to plague him every night.

Hermione jumps up impulsively, knowing exactly how to help him. She's well-learned in the correct procedure for when this type of occurrence happens; they've learnt to support each other over the years. Waking Blaise up could be dangerous, she knows, because he might try to hit her or harm her. But Hermione's the only one who can wake him safely, so instead, she keeps a safe distance and begins to shout.

"Blaise! Wake up! Blaise, wake up now!"

Hermione curses under her breath when the dark-skinned man doesn't stir, and whispers " _Sonorous,"_ while directing her wand at her throat.

"Blaise, wake up now! Wake up! Blaise!"

Her voice now reverberates around the room, so loud in the relatively small space that Hermione has to cover her ears with a wince.

Blaise's eyes fly open, his hands instantly scrabbling and grabbing at air. He jerks upright and stares around, his eyes wild, his expression frantic and confused.

Hermione quickly quiets her voice and steps a little closer, soothing Blaise in a soft voice while still maintaining a safe distance.

"Blaise, it's me. You're awake. You're safe. Listen to me, Blaise. Calm down."

Slowly, the wild look fades out of Blaise's eyes, and he slumps back down onto the couch where he was sitting before, burying his face in his hands.

Hermione moves to sit next to him, curling a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"I dream about her every time I close my eyes," Blaise says in a lost, broken voice. He misses her desperately. She will always stay with him. In his heart, she will be forever his.

"I know," Hermione says in a quiet voice, because she feels it too. Not with Ginny, obviously, but with Draco. He was never even hers, but his face still haunts her.

Not a day passes where she doesn't think about the letter he sent her the day the battle ended—the day the Dark Lord won. Why had he risked so much to warn her? To beg her not to fight? And to clear his name too? Why was it so important that she view him in such a reformed light?

She remembers the look on his face and the warmth his voice had managed to stir within her even in the midst of the battle, right before he had thrown himself in front of Bellatrix's Killing Curse. The curse intended for Hermione.

Draco Malfoy had sacrificed himself for her that day—something Hermione ponders every single day. It's the first thing she thinks about when she wakes in the morning, and the last thing that crosses her mind before she falls asleep each night.

That, and the look in his eyes as he'd thrown himself in front of her, full of determination, passion, and fearlessness. Hermione can't help but shudder as she recalls it all so vividly. The look of fierce heroism on such a youthful face. A face that will never grow old. A face that will always haunt her—in her weakest moments, in her deepest dreams...

Forever frozen in time.

* * *

A/N - Quidditch League Fanfiction Contest

Season 4, Round 11, I Open at the Close

Holyhead Harpies, Keeper

Prompt: Voldemort wins!AU, start and end with the same word

Word Count (Google Docs/Pages): 1861

Special thanks to my amazing beta, Ever (HP-Forever-XX)!


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